The Artist's Portrait of an Old Man
by Kitschgeist
Summary: Moriarty commissions a portrait of himself in the style of Jean-Baptiste Greuze.


**Prologue**

Professor James Moriarty was a well-connected person - though not all his connections were made under that name - and it was through one of these connections that he was able to request an alternative method of payment for his services.

As per his instructions, the artist had tried his best to mimic the qualities of Jean-Baptiste Greuze's oeuvre. Though the end result would never be mistaken for a genuine Greuze, Moriarty was satisfied.

On top of that, Moriarty was pleased the artist had an eye for much more than mimicry. The only suitable props available at the time of the sitting were several pristine, unread copies of _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_ , but the artist had been so kind as to change the colour of some of their bindings, to give the appearance of multiple titles.

He was so pleased, he offered the artist a signed copy of _Dynamics_ , which he accepted, and any number of additional copies, which he politely declined.

And this was how a somewhat dramatic portrait of Moriarty surrounded by his books - or, rather, copies of his book - came to be proudly displayed on the wall of his study.

* * *

 **1\. Milverton**

"I have the utmost respect for people in your line of work," said Moriarty, passing his guest a glass of brandy.

"My dear sir," said Charles Augustus Milverton, taking the glass, "Your own undertakings are no small feat. I'm honoured to meet you in person."

Moriarty smiled. "I appreciate the level of delicacy required for your success. We both know the importance of knowing how a system, as it were, is affected by the behaviour of each of its parts."

"Ah, yes," said Milverton, "I suppose one could put it that way. Knowing which strings to pull to release a hefty sum." He took a sip. "Experience has given me an eye for these things. But I made my own share of mistakes, when I first started out."

"Hm," Moriarty said, "What sort of mistakes, if I may ask?"

"Too many, Professor, too many!" Milverton laughed, and his eyes wandered across the room. His gaze met that of the portrait hanging on one of the walls. It gazed back at him. With some effort, he quickly looked away from it, and back at the real Moriarty.

"Where... where should I begin," said Milverton. "Well, certain people may seem good targets, but prove not to be."

Moriarty nodded.

"Once, I obtained a thick bundle of papers written in the hand of a certain man, the immediate heir to his father's fortune. They were a mix of incoherent ravings and strange drawings."

"Did they contain anything particularly offensive?"

"Sadly, no. Or at least, I could not recognise it, nor could anyone I consulted at the time. The writing was perfectly legible, but the overall meaning was incomprehensible. Yet, since I had acquired them at little cost, it seemed a waste not to take the opportunity.

"They were to be evidence that the man was of unsound mind, and therefore unfit to manage the estate. He protested in the usual manner when I first informed him, but didn't pay.

"I released the papers to his family, yet he inherited his fortune as if nothing had happened."

Moriarty frowned. "Did you find out why?"

"Yes," said Milverton, "My sources told me his father and younger brother chose to ignore them. There was no doubt the man wrote them, but perhaps, because he was so outwardly respectable, they were unable to digest the fact that there was another, unexpected side to him.

"The man himself gave no explanation for the papers, saying only that they were exactly what they looked like, or something to that effect."

"Something tells me," said Moriarty, "That if I had established my practice at that time, I might have been able to make sense of the documents."

"Well," said Milverton, taken aback, "I'm sure that since you've...established your practice, you've helped a great many people take on endeavours they wouldn't have been able to handle on their own.

"But my, ah, point was that sometimes, people can ignore the strangest things, so long as they don't fit their preconceptions, even if they're right in front of... staring right at... staring them in the face."

Moriarty gave a thoughtful hum. "Human nature."

Milverton smirked. "That is how I get my business."

"We learn from our mistakes, Mr Milverton," said Moriarty, "So I trust you now realise what you ought to have done at the time."

Milverton nodded. "I-" he began.

"Offer them to his brother first," continued Moriarty.

"O-of course," said Milverton.

"Granted, it's possible he wouldn't have believed you had the material, but it could have been worthwhile to profile him and craft an appealing sales pitch," said Moriarty.

"That is...exactly what I would have told myself to do," said Milverton.

"I'm sure it is," said Moriarty, smiling.

* * *

 **2\. Gruner**

"Allow me to summarise: you wish to retrieve this compromising material, which you painstakingly compiled yourself, and last saw yesterday morning," began Moriarty.

"Yes," said Baron Adelbert Gruner, with a tight-lipped smile.

"You have only shown it to every woman you've wronged-"

"Inadvertently," interrupted Gruner.

"Inadvertently? I was under the impression you enjoyed doing so."

"Inadvertently shown," said Gruner, "Under the influence of alcohol."

"Noted. And, in your opinion, the prime suspect is your last paramour," said Moriarty.

"I'm not fond of your tone, Professor, but what you say is correct," said Gruner. "I would take it back myself, but I must head to the continent tomorrow."

"It is prudent of you to ask for assistance, Baron," said Moriarty, "You would do well to avoid taking too many risks, in your haste. I imagine you hope to be free to start a second volume of your exploits, once this matter is resolved."

"Indeed," Gruner said, through gritted teeth. Moriarty's expression remained impassive.

"However," Moriarty said, "I have a suggestion."

"Yes?" said Gruner.

"We could, after this book is located, have it destroyed," said Moriarty.

Gruner made no reply.

"If this book is as comprehensive as you say it is," continued Moriarty, "This may be for the best. We don't know how many others have seen it since it left your possession, or will see it before you get it back. If the book is destroyed, there would be no evidence to back the claims of anyone who might have read it."

"I alphabetised that book," said Gruner.

Moriarty considered this. "You have a point," he said, "Perhaps it would sound too...good to be true, so long as the actual book isn't available."

"You understand the value of records, don't you?" asked Gruner.

Moriarty nodded placatingly.

"We age," said Gruner, "We forget. We change. To record is to preserve oneself."

Moriarty nodded, more hesitantly.

"It's like your portrait, Professor," said Gruner.

Moriarty nodded again, even more hesitantly. Gruner took no notice.

"But," Gruner said, with a sharp intake of breath, "I must say, people usually ask to make themselves look younger in portraits, not the other way around."

* * *

 **3\. Colonel Moriarty**

"Your mail, James," said Colonel James Moriarty, passing his brother a bundle of letters addressed to James Moriarty.

"And yours," said Professor James Moriarty, doing the same.

His brother had found out about his consulting activities early on, thanks to improperly addressed mail. His brother's help had been and continued to be useful, but he was grateful his younger brother wasn't also named James.

The professor placed his letters on the side of his desk, and the colonel tucked his into the inner pocket of his coat.

Colonel Moriarty glanced around the room. His eyes rested on the professor's new portrait.

"I think it looks more like me," said the colonel.

Professor Moriarty looked at the portrait, then back at this older brother.

"I sat for it," the professor said.

"It looks more accurate if you assume I sat for it," said the colonel.

The professor said nothing.

"It is," the colonel went on, "A portrait of James Moriar-"

"I celebrated when you went on your first tour because it meant there was a chance I would never hear you use that line again," the professor interrupted.

The colonel chuckled. "My dear brother, ever the same."

"Likewise," said the professor, flatly.

"Come now," said the colonel, "We can at least agree it looks nothing like Hamish."

"True," the professor said. "His not being named James was proof of method in our parents' madness."

"Method enough to find a loophole," the colonel added. "I once heard his wife call him James."

* * *

 **4\. Stationmaster Moriarty**

"Hamish, before you leave," said Moriarty, "I have a little something for Violet's birthday."

Hamish Moriarty, station master and proud father, grinned. "You remembered!"

"You made such a fuss about it before, I could hardly forget," said Moriarty. He propped open the door to his study and motioned for Hamish to follow him inside.

Once inside, Moriarty went over to a chest of drawers, retrieved a book, and handed it to Hamish.

"Oh, thank you, James," Hamish said. He turned it around to read the title. "The Dynamics of an Asteroid," he read.

Hamish drummed his fingers against its cover. "Thank you again, James," he began, looking up at his brother, "But Violet is two years old."

"Then save it for when she's older," said Moriarty.

"Well, the missus has been complaining about that wobbly side-table," Hamish muttered.

"You'll probably have to chop off more of the shorter leg if you want to use it for that," Moriarty said. He gestured at his own side-table, one of its legs propped up by a copy of Dynamics.

Hamish raised his eyebrows. "Glad to have your blessing."

He scanned the rest of the room. "What's this, another painting? Did that former student of yours make it, too?" he asked, pointing at the larger of the two paintings in the room, a portrait of a girl holding a lamb. "The style looks the same."

"...Yes," Moriarty said, "It's his reproduction of Greuze's La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau."

"Not bad, for a copy," said Hamish, "But I've never seen the original, so what do I know?" He shrugged.

"It's very faithful to the original," Moriarty said.

"Hm," said Hamish, "But you could buy the original if you wanted to."

"Why do you say that, Hamish?"

Hamish laughed. "You and Jamie always thought I wasn't as clever as you, but I can tell what's going on."

"Then what is going on?" Moriarty asked, crossing his arms.

"A nice place like this, fancy paintings and fancy telescopes," Hamish said, "On an army coach's salary?"

"You have another source of income," he said, circling Moriarty, "A secret source of income."

"And that would be?" asked Moriarty, sceptically.

"Your mistress!" Hamish said, coming back to face his brother.

Moriarty let out a sharp laugh. "Do you seriously think that?" he said, his smile instantly fading.

"You can deny it," said Hamish, indulgently, "But I know the truth. She's a lonely widow who used to be a high society belle. Her children and in-laws are only interested in her wealth, and all her suitors have been the same.

"But you're different, James, only you understand her. She spends her money on you because you never tried to take advantage of her like they did. You would love her all the same if she stopped giving you gifts, but she insists, and you accept, because it's part of how you communicate. She wishes she could run away with you to the countryside, but-"

"Hamish!" yelled Moriarty, "There is not a grain of truth in what you just said."

"If you say so," said Hamish, sarcastically.

"I have nothing against this ridiculous fiction you've come up with, Hamish, but don't write me into it," Moriarty sighed.

Hamish laughed. "Alright, James, clearly you're not ready to admit-"

Moriarty glared at him.

"Fiction it is," sighed Hamish. He waved the copy of _Dynamics_ in his hand. "I suppose you could recommend a good publisher for my 'novel'."

" _Dynamics_ is non-fiction, if you hadn't noticed," said Moriarty, "But if you'd like to put your creative talents to better use than slandering your brother, I'd be glad to help you make enquiries."

"Aha... Quality materials," said Hamish, tapping the book with his other hand. "They even survive as doorstops," he continued, looking at the book placed on the floor to prop open the door.

"That's not one of mine," said Moriarty. "Anyway, I think I've kept you too long."

"Oh, yes, I should get going," said Hamish. He walked out of the study.

Moriarty followed him, kicking _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ out of the way as he closed the door.

* * *

 **5\. Moran**

"Be honest," Moriarty said.

"Horrible," said Sebastian Moran, "And you don't realise that because you're blinded by your own Francophilia."

"You think I'm a Francophile?" said Moriarty, astonished. "Appreciating Greuze makes me a Francophile?"

"Corresponding in French with that Poincaré..."

"Is it my fault my French is better than his English?"

"Alright, nevermind," Moran said, "At any rate, it was unrealistic."

"It's not about accuracy," said Moriarty.

"Even so," said Moran, "I'm not impressed."

By then, they had caught sight of the Seine, glistening under the street-lamps' light. They proceeded along the river.

"Never once met a Lakmé. Believe me, I've looked," Moran said. "Besides, British officers Gérald and Fréderic?"

"Your conquests or lack thereof have nothing to do with opera," said Moriarty, "And you know it's a matter of translation, Colonel Sébastien."

Moran made a non-committal noise as they continued walking, surrounded by the blended sounds of Parisian nightlife.

"The music," Moriarty said, finally, "Surely you could appreciate the music."

"That I could," said Moran, "But putting it into the story was contrived."

Moriarty stared at him in weary disbelief. "You are aware you're not obliged to go to the opera?"

"I am well aware," laughed Moran.

"And?" asked Moriarty.

"I'll stop when you stop," said Moran.

* * *

 **6\. ?**

Moriarty dropped his travelling bags in the hallway unceremoniously and headed straight to his armchair to catch his breath.

All the way from the station to his flat, he'd been followed by no less than two men, a woman, and an unknown party in a cab.

Not to mention a street urchin, who he confronted, but claimed to have been 'just' trying to pickpocket him. It was the first time he'd heard anyone use that as an excuse.

While he had the patience and funds to zig-zag across the city to lose them, it was unnerving. Mere months ago, he wouldn't have guessed anyone would have dared trail him, if they knew who he was. And no one who didn't know who he was would have had reason to trail him. But now...

From the windows, the sunset bathed the room in deep gold. The rays' glare bothered Moriarty. He stood and shut the curtains, at the same time checking that the windows were bolted.

His afternoon of leading his pursuers in circles had fouled his mood to the extent that when he entered his flat, he didn't notice the slip of paper sticking out from under the door to his study. But upon turning back from the windows, he did.

Moriarty picked it up. It was an old note, written in code, pertaining to events long since concluded. It was nearly impossible he had dropped it there when he left.

He supposed he owed it to his pursuers' ineptitude that he was, on some level, prepared to find his privacy compromised yet again.

He entered his study. At a glance, all was as it was when he had last seen it.

Except for one thing.

On his portrait, using white chalk, someone had drawn a bicorne on top of his head.

 _He can boast of 'art in the blood' all he wants_ , Moriarty thought, _but if this is his idea of satire, he would never make it into Punch._

 _He ought to stick to detective work._

* * *

Notes:

Lakmé: A French opera, which premiered in 1883 and ran for several years in Paris, set in the British Raj. It's about the relationship between an Indian woman (Lakmé) and a British officer.

Poincaré: Henri Poincaré (1852-1912), polymath who has a bunch of stuff named after him.

bicorne: "the Napoleon hat"

Punch: the satirical magazine


End file.
